WHICH WAS .... .... THE HEIRESS?

Lake County Press, Issue 2855, 23 September 1920, Page 2

WHICH WAS .... .... THE HEIRESS?

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OR, THE CURSE OF ADRIAN BLAh\. Br EDITH C. KENYON,

CHAPTER XV.—( Continued ). Chey were already dressed, and looking at their best, which, in poor Dora’s case was not saying verv much. She had, however, a pretty figure, and it looked Veil in the beautifully-made cream dress, which clung to it, showing its lissome grace. The dross was cut high in the neck, for, as the Master of Waddington sometimes observed, the less that was seen of Dora’s skin, the better for the onlookers. Her poor face was still disfigured, although not quite »o much as when she was a child, and her hair, which was stylishly dressed, was thin and coarser, although almost the same in colour, as Doris’s. The latter looked beautiful, dressed in white—some transparent filmy material—out of which her pretty white neck and lovelv face showed to perfection; her hair and well-shaped arms were bare. She was a girl of whom her father might well be proud ; be adored ber more than ever. She wa< bis onlv child—for children had not blessed his union with his second wife—a id also bis heiress, and he expected her to marry one of the leading young men m the neighbourhood. Riches he did not look for in his danghter’s future husband—he had enongh and to spare, and it pleased bis pride to think that he alone should give her all that she required in that way—but be wanted her to marry someone who had a title and would have a seat in Parliament. He was ambitious for his daughter. He waited her to be distinguished. And he hoped that one day a son of her’s wonld take the name of Blair, and succeed to the estates which had so long belonged to a BJ.irof Wadten. “ Dora,” said Doris, lav,„ 0 ner hand affectionately npon Dora’s shoulder, “ I am so glad you came to us then. I think I should have grown up so heartless and spoilt if it hadn’t been for yon. I never was more touched by anything in all my young life than I was at the sight of you—a poor. thin, weary, dirty child.'vonr little frock torn with briars, and your face and arms black and blue in placi s with the blows you had received—singing so very sweetly, like Blondel in the story, in the hope that I should hear you. Dora, dearest, my heart went out to you then, and I loved you.” Dora clasped the little hand upon her shoulder with both hers - . “ Doris, ’’ she said, “ when I saw you coming through the bushes to me in your pretty white frock, wiih yonr bare arms—so pretty they were—outstretched, I thought you were an angel—oh, Doris, and you were an angel of goodness to me.” Doris laughed. “ I think I never did anything more creditable,” she said, with a little air of complacency, *■ than I did when I made your cause mine, and pleaded with papa to let you stay,” “ I never thought he would consent,” said Dora. “ I was so terribly afraid of him. Y r on know he had ordered me away so very furiously only that morning. It was all yonr doing, Doris, and your dear step-mother’s, that he consented to allow me to live here.” “ Poor papa!” said Doris, “ I wish I could love him • as he loves me ; but I cannot. No, deary I cannot. He was so unkind to especially about her boys, and they are such dear boys, and she died so brokenhearted. Yes, Dora dear, I know it was a broken heart she died of—although they called it rapid consumption. She never looked up after poor Fred was torn away from her and sent to sea—he did not want to go at the last, you know.” “ Yes, I know,” said Dora, tears rising to her eyes, “he repented of having expressed a, wish to go almost as soon as he had said it, but Mr, Blair held him to his word. Poor Fred ! Some boys would have been so glad to enter the Navy. But he had set his heart upon being a clergyman",” “ Dear mother wanted him to be a clergyman so much. Douglas has no liking for books. It would be better for him to go to sea. But father would ■end him to Cambridge, and tbeir he is, as you know, continually getting into trouble.” “ But Archie says he believes he will do better Kow. Archie has had some serious talks with him,” said Dora. Her face brightened a little as she mentioned the xonng man, who, being the son of their clergyman, was often at the Hall. “ Archie will do him goM if anyone can,” said Doris. “ And your father has neen very kind to me in If Ring me have such excellent instruction in singing,” said Dora, gratefully. “ Those six months in Italy have been such a booa to me.” “ Why, dear, we were more than repaid when you sang that solo in the anthem in Church last Sunday so gloriously. Pspa actually shed tears.” ** I think he likes to hear me sing;” ** I »m sure of it. If he has been ever •o tiresome and cross with yon, he gets arer # when he hears joti singing. 1 •safc 4 oo'tid aisf. I would give «ar«

Author of" Jack's Cousin Kale ” “ The Squire of Lonsdale , n “ A Poor Relation " etc,, etc., Published by special arrangement with Cassell & Co., Ltd.

thing to be able. It wm please him so.” “ Well, Doris. I want you to practise yonr voice. Indeed, it is not a bad one, if you would only get it trained.” “ Do you think if I cultivate it, or let some one cultivate it for me. all ray lifetime, I could ever, ever sing like you ? “ Of course vou could,” began Dora. “ But Doris interrupted her. “ I know better," she and I shall never place myself in such a position. Dora,” she added, “ did it ever strike you as strange that your father never made an effort to trace you here. Neither he nor his wife ever wrote to ask if you had come, or came here after you." “ I am glad that they didn’t." “ Do you know. I asked Papa this morning why it was that they never came, or wrote, and he said ” —Doris broke off and looked confused. “ I suppose he said they did not care enough for me to take the trouble.” “ He said for one thing that Mr. Adrian Blair, your father, hated him, and that the last time he was here lie left in a great rage, uttering a curse against the family, or something, which father said he could never forgot.” “ Indeed! What was it?" “ I don’t know exactly. Father *..>uld not tell me—Oh. look I Archie and the others are coming in." “ Through the window the girls could see three young men in shooting dress returning from the woods, two keepers following them, bearing the spoil, and half-a-dozen dogs. The keepers and dogs went round to the yard, the young men ran lightly upstairs and burst into the room. . “ I say, girls,” said Douglas, throwing himself down into an armchair, “give us a cup of tea, please, we’re dead beat.” Dora busied herself in providing them each with a tinv cup of afternoon tea. “ Yon will have to make haste,” she said, “dinner will be served in a few minutes.” “ Oh, I can dress in two,” said Douglas. “ What sort of a bag have you made. Lord Herbert ?" asked Doris, carelessly. “ Pretty fair. It would have been awfully bad if it hadn’t been for Scott. He’s a crack shot. He went blazing away. when we were simply waiting f or the game to turn up. I never saw such a fellow I" cried Douglas admiringly. Doris looked at Archie, who was a fine, strong young Fellow, six feet two inches in his stockings, and broadshouldered. with an earnest, but still boyish face. “ Archie can generally do what he pleases,” she said, smilingly, and her eyes rested on his for a moment, in a simple, affectionate way, which he seemed to like verv much. “ I wish I could do what I please in one particular.” he said in a low tone in her ear, stooping to help himself to another piece of cake. “ In every particular, success is to the earnest and true hearted,” she replied, also in a low tone. Ever since, as a small boy, he had stayed in the house with them for several months, whilst his parents were away in America, he had been on very intimate terms with the two girls at the Hall, and also with Doris’s stepbrothers. With the late Mrs. Blair, who died two years before, he was a verv great favourite. The only person who did not Hike him was Mr. Blair, but then he liked no young men who came about the place, unless they had a title, or were born of titled parents, like Lord Herbert Blakeney, a College friend of Douglas’s, who was staying at the Hall for some weeks during the Long Vacation. Nothing would have pleased Mr. Blair more than that Doris and Lord Herbert Blakeney should fall in love with each other. And they certainly got on very well together so,far. “ Well, you must rush off to dress,” said Douglas. “ nothing upsets the Pater like having us come in late to dinner. I've gone without dinner before to-day', rather than show myself late, I can assure yon.” Upon that the others hurried away, and the two girls were left alone, but only for a moment. A maid entered asking if Miss Blair wonU kindly see a poor woman named Mrs. Jones, who had just returned from America, and wished very much to see her. “ v e r y w ell,” said Doris. kindly, you can bring her here.” In a few moments the ma.id returned with a poor, gaunt-looking woman, who came forward slowly and curtsied, not to Doris, but to Dora, in whose face she looked eagerly, and then gave a little cry, “ Forgive me, my dear young lady,” •he said, but yonr face tells me what you have be*n through. Oh, why was I not here to nurse you 7” Dora, who understood that abe was H-ing comtns-mWM u account of her ■ having had tha amall-pox, hiateaad to

assure the womr.n that rt «M mj *a»7 \ cars since she had it

“ Oh, dear,” said the wora»E, _ “yon must excuse me, Miss, but it was in this very room that your mamma lay dying. Yes. Miss, I was your nurse then, and I heard her last words. ‘ Doris,’ she said, faintly, with her hand on your little head, ‘ God bless you. May He reward good to those who do good to you,—a"d —and—evil to those who do you harm.’ ” “ But you mistake’” sr.id Dora, gently, “ this young lady,” pointing to Doris, “was the baby. She is Miss Blair.” “ She !” The woman turned and looked at Doris with the utmost astonishment. She saw the blue eyes of the baby she bad loved grown larger and darker, as tlv«y ought to have done, and the same with the hair, but did not recognise the likeness in the face, and shook her head. “ Nay, nay.” she said, softly.

“ Yes, lam Doris Blair. I did not know it was in this room that ray mother died,” said Doris, softly, “ Tell me some more about her, please.” “ But you—you —do excuse me Miss, Will yon turn yonr sleeve up, bo —a little higher please. I want to see the left side of your right shoulder. There used to be a mark there, you were born with it, as if a finger had pressed the skin a little. No, it is not there.” “ What made vou think Miss Dora Blair. ray half-cousin, was me 7” asked Doris, presently. “ She has a look of your dear mamma,” returned the woman. “ But now I see. M iss, you are both somewhat alike, and you are very like your papa—very —very like him.”

“ Yes. I know I am like him,” said Doris. “ Bnt tell me, tell me,” she repeated, earnestly, “ something more about my dear mother.”

“She did heg that lady, Miss Carrington—her that was so good as to help me go to America—to be a mother to you, she said, ah, so earnestly, ‘ And as you do to her, so may Cod Almightv reward you, both in this life and also in that which is to come.’ Thera were her last words, Miss ; her voice got softer and softer, and then, when it ceased speaking, she jnst gave one sob, and fell back npon her pillow. She had gone.”

Doris caught bold of Dora’s hand. “ No one,” she said, passionately, “ has ever spoken to me of my mother before ; I did not know she loved me—l did not indeed."

But of course she loved you—was she not yonr mother ?” said Dora. “ But so much, so very much 7” cried Doris. I ought to have known. I ought to have thought of her sometimes. Even now I don t feel as if it were really true that she cared for me like that.” “Your voice isn’t a bit like her’s, ’’ said the woman, in a disappointed tone. “ But when the other young lady speaks, I could almost swear she was back again in the room. But tell me, Miss Blair,” turning to Doris, " was Miss Carrington very good to you 7”

Yes,” answered Doris, “ She potted me a great deal. But somehow when I left her I did not care much, and I have never cared for her since. But that’s my way,” she added regretfully, “ I believe I haven t a heart. I never can manage to love the people I really ought to love.”

“ Doris,” cried Dora, seizing both her hands, and pressing them lovingly, “ you, lore me ! and that sweet charity shall cover a multitude of sins. CHAPTER XVI. REJECTED BT BOTH VATHRSV. << Ifdrian, you must not go to Wad•J" dington. You ciust not, indeed. I won’t hear of it. If you care anything about me you will not run the risk. It is too great.” " Oh, well, Constance, yon know you did your best to ruin me, regardless of ray wishes, and you don’t even profess to care for me.” “At least I was honest when I married yon,” said Constance, bitterly. " And so was I. But you would wear out the love of the largest-hearted husband in the world, you would.” Husband and wife had lived very unhappily together for several years. Constance had been exceedingly extravagant, so that they lived np to the full income—large though it was—that Adrian derived from his share in the mine in Australia. It was in vain that he wanted to invest a large sura yearly, Constance would not hear of it. She seemed t > have thrown prudence to the winds, and was bent on nothing but following the dictates of her own most selfish will. Adrian, like many another who had received the desire of his heart, found it brought him little except disappointment and disillusion. Vanity of vanities saith the preacher, who has tasted to the full the futility of earthly sources of enjoyment. {To be Continued.) W.H. !5.

“ Begob, I couldn’t pay me three dollars foine, and had to go to goal for sir days.” “ How much did you spend getting drunk 7” “ Oh, ’bout three dollars.” “ Yez fool, if yez hadn't spent three dollars in drink, yez’d had three dollars to pay your foine wid.” Mrs. Mo: “There’s nothin* like matrimony to make a man appreciate the valne of money,” Mrs. So ; “ That’s true. A sovereign a man gives to his wife does look bigger to him than any other sovereign. Grapes are still trodden with the barn fe t in many of the vineyards < f Spain and Italy. Canada had only 1700 school! Id 1850. Sba haa DOW ov«r 18,50 ft.